


you can get out of this party dress, but you can't get out of this skin

by bicarolina



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Mention of eating disorder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, doesn't need an asshole to remind her of her poor decisions, its all very minor but definitely triggering, mention of suicide, not a lot just enough, poor girl's been through a lot, shitty military galas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23947684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bicarolina/pseuds/bicarolina
Summary: Riza doesn't like military galas. Someone has to watch his back, but who is watching hers?
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 3
Kudos: 56





	you can get out of this party dress, but you can't get out of this skin

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just guessing at what possibly could've been some reaction to being guilty of murder.

Riza Hawkeye is not one for parties. She does not like them, but she tolerates them when she’s invited to them by the General. He’s still schmoozing his way to the top, almost as if he was born for the role of playing nice for people he hates. It’s a learned talent; she knows from experience that he was never this suave, never this much of a people-pleaser. But he does well now, a means to an end that leads to them righting their wrongs. 

“You’re Mustang’s, no?”

It should be of no surprise to her that other officers approach her. She’s wearing a dark-blue dress, with a bit of a v-neck that rises a little higher than she’d like. She has her hair down, with a touch of makeup. More than she ever wore to work, that’s for sure, but she didn’t think it was enough to lead to questions of who she is.  
That line of thought, that she is simply Mustang’s and not Riza Hawkeye, makes her question herself.

“I am, General Ziegler,” she answers, trying her hardest not to sound annoyed. She’s talked to him multiple times, normally to deliver misfiled paperwork that was his jurisdiction. 

Ziegler shakes his head. “Such a shame. You could have your own team, and you could be working under someone competent, all you have to do is say the word.”

“I’m afraid I don’t do well under new management,” she tells him. Not exactly a lie: she did well enough under King Bradley, but she definitely wasn’t at her best. “I do appreciate the offer.” She doesn’t.

“You’re just as much a hero of Ishval as Mustang, don’t forget.”

He leaves her at that point, and it leaves her skin crawling. 

She knows better than to let the words of others bother her, but he doesn’t know that Ishval was more than just a genocidal act. He truly sees her as someone who followed orders perfectly and behaved as any soldier should, and she did so with flying colors. 

The General, her General, touches her shoulder and she jumps. “At ease, Captain.” The knot at the back of her spine loosens. “How’s the mingling going?”

She gestures to the not-crowd of people around her. “You have eyes, sir.”

“What did Ziegler want?”

“Me under him. Whether strictly in a military aspect or otherwise is still up for debate.” She did not miss how his eyes roamed her. “He felt the need to remind me of my heroism in the war.”

General Mustang sighs. “What did you tell him?”

She'll be honest with him. “I don’t do well under new management.”

He laughs. “That’s certainly not far from the truth. I’ve chatted with about everyone I’ve needed to. Would you be so kind as to drive me home, Captain?”

She nods. “I’d be thrilled to, sir.” Anything to get away from these foolish men that don’t know when to stop.

He offers his arm, and she offers him a look instead. “I can’t escort you?”

“You’re not my escort, General.”

He laughs as they leave the grand ballroom, and she wonders how they look to the others. Certainly, they look like fools: Her commanding officer, a known womanizer; his adjutant, a stick up her ass. They don’t look like they meld together, but they do, somehow. 

Perhaps it is the sad eyes of murderers who wish that they’d had another option.

He sets a hand on her thigh once they’re in the car. “You’re not worried about Ziegler, are you?” He asks her, and she sits on it.

“I don’t believe I need to worry,” she says, flashing him the holster she has on her thigh, her gun warm on the inside of her leg. “But I do worry about how he’ll butt heads with you over the interaction tonight. I foresee him causing you problems.”

“Nothing I haven’t handled before.”

She drives him home, makes sure he makes it into his lobby before driving to her own apartment. Her elderly neighbor Louise comments on how beautiful she looks; she thanks her kindly. Louise wishes she’d settle down already, but she has no intent on doing anything of the sort. 

Once her door is locked and she puts food out for Hayate, she retreats to her bedroom to shed her dress. She hates dressing up for such silly events, but she wants to support the General. She knows she can tell him no, and it would be fine, but she has to watch his back. That’s her job.

She somehow manages to unzip the back of her dress, not liking how it gives easier than the last time she wore it. She shimmies out of it, and she catches her reflection in her mirror. She doesn’t remember the last time she’d put makeup on. Maybe her father’s funeral? No, she wears it when she goes out with Rebecca. That’s truly the only time she dusts her cheeks in rouge, paints her eyes and lips as though she’s a doll. 

She can’t count her ribs, which reminds her that she’s doing okay. It was bad when she’d come back from Ishval, but she’d never looked like Alphonse when he’d first come back. She’d had to extend her thigh holster a bit, which feels good, because she’d been running more recently, and she release the clasps of the holster, dropping it on the floor with the dress. She doesn’t feel like putting either of them away.

She drops onto her bed, feeling weighed down by every aspect of her life. Some days she wonders how she didn’t kill herself during the war. After seeing Mustang, her whole life felt so pointless. She should’ve known that he would’ve gotten sucked into the war, too, but she had been hoping he wouldn’t see what she’d become. Instead, she’d seen her own gaunt expression in his eyes. 

Tomorrow she will wake at 0600, shower, eat breakfast, put on her uniform, and go to work, and remind herself that she’s fighting to make things better. They’re expecting relocation orders back east, which will put them back near where their lives fell apart.

It also puts them closer to the three children that made her feel like marching forward with purpose.

Her phone rings.

She tugs on her robe and enters her living room to answer the phone she never uses. “Hello?”

“I hope you’re not thinking too much. It won’t be easy to sleep if you let it get to you.” The General’s voice on the other line soothes her jostled nerves.

“I think you should be making sure that you’re not overthinking, sir.” It’s a return to the usual.

“You’re not required to attend those parties, you know.”

“Someone has to watch your back, and I doubt Ziegler would be up to the job.” 

“Too loyal. We’re fixing things, you know. Word on the street is that the orders were signed yesterday.”

Good. She misses the east. “I’ll see you in the morning, sir.”

“Goodnight, Lieu—Captain.”

The line clicks, and she holds the phone to her ear a little longer. 

She can’t undo what she’s done, but she’s working to make it better.


End file.
